Metronome

by Oliver Langmead

  Mystified, I head to the back of the room. There is something beside the window, not easily visible. It is a large frame, and contained within it is something like a scroll or a contract. I peer through the gloom, and see that it is a length of parchment titled Babel. And that beneath the title is a musical score.

  It is a lengthy piece and takes up most of the back wall with its size, and between and upon the bars of its body dance the notes of a grand and regal song. It is a complicated composition, and it takes me some time to glance through and absorb it even partially.

  It is in reading that I find something of an understanding.

  This room is for the ship’s navigator. And here, at the back of the room, framed and in pride of place, is the map that belongs to Babel. I do not understand how one would follow a map made of music, but I would imagine it has something to do with all of the strange instruments gathered around me.

  ‘You’re the map-maker?’ A voice, from the doorway.

  The Captain is tall and stern. She wears a long red coat with golden buttons, and she has a long braid of grey hair, tied behind her back, but it is her face that commands attention. It is an expanse of leathery and weather-worn skin, from within which a pair of wild eyes glare. And inscribed into the skin of that face is an unusual tattoo.

  I am delighted to see that it is another musical score. There is the staff, with its five black bars running from ear to ear. Curled to the far left is a treble clef. And set upon this framework, taking the space across her eyes, touching her top lip and even drawn across her forehead, is a strange song.

  ‘I am,’ I tell her, and smile.

  My smile is not returned. The Captain looks me up and down.

  ‘While aboard my ship, you’ll adhere to my rules. No weapons of any kind. No disobeying orders. And you’ll pitch in as well. I’ll not have a still body aboard my vessel. Understand?’ She takes a step forward and into the room. ‘The Sleepwalker March tells me you can make a map that leads to Solomon’s Eye, and I have taken him at his word – his line has earned that much from me. But if I find you a liar, or a cheat, using my goodwill to secure yourself passage to some elsewhere place, then I’ll have you both thrown overboard. Understand?’ And before I can make a reply, she says, ‘Show me your hands.’

  I have never met a captain quite like this before.

  Stepping towards her, I raise my aching hands, and as I do, I notice that they are not shaking as much as usual. Their tremor seems somewhat subdued, and even the tattoo visible at my wrist seems somewhat better defined. I frown.

  Expecting Reid to comment on my arthritis, I am surprised when she says, ‘You’ve sailed.’

  ‘Aye,’ I tell her. ‘On and off my whole life.’

  At this, she gives me a cold smile. ‘Good.’

  I lower my hands. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I tell her.

  ‘See that you do. Now: explain to me from where your map came.’

  There is no easy answer. I settle for, ‘A fever dream, a few years ago.’

  ‘Mm,’ says the Captain, thoughtfully. ‘Prophetic, perhaps.’

  Black boots clacking across the wood, she makes to leave. Only, at the door, she pauses, and turns back to me. ‘I’m given to understand that you have a broken string?’

  ‘Yes. And I’m not sure if I can give you the map without it.’

  The Captain gives this a moment’s thought. ‘I’ll have Callister informed – our chief engineer. And if we have nothing on board in service, then we’ll make a stop.’ Her stern face softens, and she says, ‘For ages beyond reckoning, I have searched for a means to return to Solomon’s Eye. There’s an honesty in hands like yours, master map-maker, and I am led to believe that you and your Sleepwalker are truthful. Should you take us to where the black road once led, to the edge of Solomon’s Storm, then I will take us through it. And not a thing on hell or earth can stop me.’

  I believe her.

  *

  I head up on deck as we pull away from the docks.

  The ticking of the Metronome’s engine is louder now, as it propels us in a slow arc. Captain Reid stands tall behind the ship’s wheel, rolling it with one hand, the other behind her back – a regal pose. I notice that her wheel is a pointed star, like a sun, each spoke spiked.

  Without orders, the crew dash from edge to edge, pulling on levers and adjusting valves. If the Metronome was slumbering before, then she is now awakening – the creaking of levers is her yawning, and the glinting of the sun across her bow is the opening of her eyes to see the day. The beak of the phoenix figurehead cuts clean through the air.

  March has his rifle in pieces before him on a strip of canvas. He sits cross-legged at the ship’s prow, and with a thin length of cloth, carefully cleans each part. As I approach, I notice the unusual quality of his ammunition. Free from its housing, there is a bullet visible at the top of the rifle’s magazine. It is a cloudy kind of silver, and as I watch it, I can see that the cloudiness is formed of condensation, as if the bullet is very cold.

  ‘Hi, Will,’ says March. ‘I guess you met the Captain?’

  ‘I did. She’s pretty remarkable.’

  ‘Definitely.’ The boy soldier squints across at her. ‘She’s also mad.’

  ‘Do you know what the song tattooed onto her face is?’

  He shrugs as he puts his rifle back together. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘She’s letting you keep your guns?’

  ‘An exception for a Sleepwalker, apparently.’

  The city rolls out beneath us as we steadily glide around the edge of the tower. We appear to be adjusting our heading so that we can set out to sea, and I watch as the city streets, like the strands of an infinitely complex web, are netted out below us. I see the crowds of the city stop as we pass, casting their eyes up to watch us go.

  March joins me at the railing, the warm wind causing his hair to flicker like fire. We both watch the streets and canals of Babel as they unfold beneath us, and a part of me wishes that I had spent more time here, simply exploring the place.

  ‘Where are we heading?’ I ask him.

  ‘We need to go to another city first,’ he tells me. ‘Called Binary. So I can go to Parliament and warn the rest of the Sleepwalkers about what June’s doing. Maybe get us some help.’

  At last, the Metronome’s arc has brought us to the point where we are confronted by the sea instead of distant mountains. The sun is cut in half by the tower behind us. Ahead, at the edge of the city, there are beaches and docks and breakers, and a swarming of people like ants spread across them. I have spent so long without leaving a city that the sea seems infinite before us. I feel my heart beating faster in my chest.

  ‘March?’

  ‘Hm?’ He also seems to be absorbed in the magnificent view.

  ‘I get how the doors work. But how does Babel work? I mean, whose dream is it?’

  A pause from the young soldier. Then he says, ‘Everything dreams, Will. Worms dream of rich earth, and birds dream of open skies, and pebbles dream of being mountains. The difference is that, while people have doors, everything else doesn’t. It’s just one great big mass of dreaming, dreamed up by all the animals and plants and everything else. Wild dreams. And in some places, the doors come together, and people make cities in the wild.’

  ‘Like Babel.’

  ‘Like Babel. And a few other places.’

  I watch the tower as it thins out behind us. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

  ‘Sometimes,’ says March, and he leaves it at that.

  I hold my breath as the Metronome begins to find speed and heads for the divide between land and water. It feels as if I might tumble overboard into the blue, sky or sea. And then, all at once, we have crossed that border, the city of Babel is behind us and I feel as if I can release my breath. The air I breathe now is frigid and laced with salt, and the air coursing across deck seems colder. It whisks the edges of my coat around. I feel suddenly free, so free, and better still as the tower of Babel becomes a l
ine, becomes a thin line, becomes the horizon turned vertical, dividing the sky behind us.

  I laugh, and my laughter is caught on the wind and whisked away. The Metronome is as fast as promised, and the waves blur by beneath us. Her ticking is noisy and in a quick step now, as if time is passing faster, and the deck feels warm beneath my feet. We are a glinting golden jewel in the sky, retreating into the blue.

  We fly out beyond the horizon, in pursuit of June.

  Part Two

  Callister's Birds

  Binary

  Beyond the Metronome the sky turns from blue to faded blue, to white, to grey.

  As we soar into a deep gloom, it reminds me of my first voyage.

  It was an unusually overcast day in August, not long after my twenty-ninth birthday, when I drove up to Aberdeen in my little beaten car. With all my training complete, I probably should have felt some excitement. After all, this is what I had been yearning to do since I was young: to sail and see new places. The ship waiting for me was a hauler called the Prince Regent, and I had a place on board as a deck rating – perfect for me, because I was never officer material. Yet driving towards the docks, all I felt was a sort of slow dread. Samantha burbled in the back seat and Lily was silent the whole journey, refusing to look me in the eye.

  I suppose that I had been expecting more cheer as we pulled away from shore. Like in wartime with the crew leaning over the side of the ship, waving to their loved ones. But there was only me, watching Aberdeen slowly recede. And there was only Lily at the docks, and she did not wave. She held on to Samantha, and I remember the way her white dress moved in the cold wind. It was my favourite white dress, stained slightly at the shoulder because Sammy had thrown up a little earlier in the day. Lily did not smile her sly slanted smile for me. Her dark hair swished across her shoulders, and I knew, more than anything else in the world, that I no longer wanted to leave.

  The Metronome soars through clouds, and they let forth a hazy drizzle too fine to be rain, and too soaking to be a shower. With a sigh, I fasten my coat closed before the weather can drench me. Nearby, March does the same.

  A city comes into view.

  We fly above uniform towers arranged in blocks. The towers rise into the grey, and those panelled in glass reflect the dull sky and us: a black dot approaching. The streets beneath are arranged in an almost perfect grid pattern, where black and grey cars queue up, awaiting turns to cross intersections. Street lamps shine against the gloom of the drizzle, but they are unwelcoming white lights that do more to illuminate pavements than bring cheer to the place.

  I realise that I am searching for any hint of colour in the streets. The roads are grey, the cars are grey and the buildings are grey.

  ‘This is Binary, then?’ I ask March.

  He nods grimly. Even the colour in his uniform seems to be fading.

  ‘The other side of the coin,’ he says.

  Looking at him now, a vision of green against the gloom, I realise why I feel so comfortable around March. He reminds me of Valentine.

  When the Prince Regent finally took port in Cairo, halfway through my first voyage, I took to the bars there in order to try and drink some of my misery away. It was in one of those bars where I met a young soldier with an enormous bristling brown moustache and a ridiculous English accent, and the two of us continued the night together into oblivion, trading stories in the heat. He told me that he had been sent to Cairo with a diplomatic party in order to keep an eye on them, and he told me that his name was Sergeant Valentine. We laughed, that night. I remember the laughter.

  I say to March, ‘You ever hear of a guy called Major Valentine?’

  Immediately, his face brightens up. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘No. I’m curious. He never talks much about his army days.’

  ‘He’s still alive? Well I’ll be damned.’ March grins. ‘He’s a legend.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. I joined the army a couple of weeks before Valentine’s day, so I was going through basic on the day, and they had us learn all about Major Valentine, and sing some stupid songs, and run about in the mud and the rain until we couldn’t even feel our legs any more. Valentine was a cunning bastard. Won a lot of medals. Saved a lot of lives. There was one story where he sorted out a hostage situation at an embassy by rerouting the water supply. Flooded the place from the sewers. Lots of politicians with muddy feet, but lots of terrorists too. I think they kept that one out of the news. Can you imagine the headlines?’

  I have to laugh. ‘I’ll have to ask him about that one.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says March. ‘You should.’

  The Metronome circles skyscrapers, and I am reminded of Manhattan, but without the spirit that brings Manhattan to life. The ticking of the Metronome’s engine rattles the windows of the skyscrapers we pass, causing droplets of drizzle to shiver.

  Ahead, I can just about make out what looks to be a set of skydocks set into the side of a skyscraper. They seem as uniform and well maintained as the rest of the city, lacking in the haphazard rope and woodwork of Babel.

  I shiver as the first of the drizzle manages to touch my shoulders through my coat, and hope that we are not staying in this place for very long. March slings his rifle over his shoulder as we set down, making for a gangplank being lowered by hissing pneumatics. He waves at the Captain – red coat turned crimson – who calls across to him. ‘Make haste, Sleepwalker! I have little love for this place.’

  March shrugs off the command and turns back to me.

  ‘You should come with me,’ he says. ‘Everyone else is waiting here. Loading up supplies. Getting ready to run after June. But you’ll be safer with me. Or rather, I’d feel better being able to keep a close eye on you. If you wake up, then we’re all screwed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, without you, we don’t have a map, or any real way of catching up to June. And if I lose track for a minute and you accidentally get woken up, then the next time you fall asleep – tomorrow night, or whenever – you’ll be back in your own dream and have to find Babel again. And by the time that’s somehow happened, June’s already gotten to Solomon’s Eye, and—’

  ‘She opens the prison.’

  ‘A lot of people could die, Will. Nightmare kings are no joke.’ March glances out at the grey city of Binary – dull and dull and dull. ‘It’s a hell of bureaucracy, here. Not very exciting. But I promise we’re not gonna be here for long. I just need to warn the others, and see if we can get any help.’

  I pull my coat closer and feel the kind of rush of blood I associate with pins and needles: a sudden flush of warmth through my fingers. The ache there feels different now, as if it is reparative instead of being indicative of damage. I wonder what is happening to me.

  ‘You coming?’ asks March.

  ‘Doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice,’ I tell him, but my words come out more cynical than I mean. Perhaps it is just the gloom of Binary, making me bitter. I will be glad to leave this place.

  *

  I follow March through the streets of Binary.

  We tread damp pavements, passing cars that all look identical; they are black, glistening with droplets and driven by hunchback shades with the corners of their mouths drawn down as if weighted. Drivers do not vie for space here: they are content to queue and wait their turn at the intersections, where the colourless traffic lights are shades of grey.

  I shiver in the drizzle. ‘This is what I imagine hell to be like,’ I say, trudging along.

  March is an unusual figure in this city. He is a soldier surrounded by men and women in dark suits and dark raincoats, carrying identical black umbrellas and briefcases. At crossings they wait in silence, their umbrellas forming an unbroken canopy overhead, but March pushes through. ‘Hate it here,’ he tells me. ‘I keep imagining grabbing a bucket of red paint and just throwing it at walls, you know?’

  As we carry on, I find myself yearning for the same. Worst of all
are the doors. Because there are doors here – hundreds, if not thousands; easily as many as in Babel. Except here there is no telling where the dull individual dreams end and the dull city starts.

  Off in the distance, there is a boom. The ground trembles slightly.

  We both halt.

  ‘What was that?’

  March looks concerned, but shrugs. ‘Not sure.’

  Across an intersection, March takes us into a park. He has sped up a little.

  I feel as if I am able to breathe a little better away from the claustrophobic streets, but I notice that the depths of the park’s fountains are encrusted with coins like silver scales; there are so many wishes left unfulfilled here that the coins have become mountains. We pass people sat on wet benches. Everyone in this city looks tired, and I realise that it is possible, even in dreaming, to be dreadfully weary.

  At a faceless, nameless statue, March has stopped. He is looking upwards.

  There is a rumbling in the air, a thrumming, and around us, the trees shudder. There are fires in the grey sky. Though it is not possible to make out any distinct shapes, it is possible to see the shadows of ships as they pass through the clouds above. The fires are the flaring engines propelling some of them along, but there are others lights too, piercing the gloom – winking red and green lamps, swinging torches and a scattering of portholes lining the edges of unseen hulls. It looks like a whole fleet of skyships are passing over the city.

  ‘That’s not right,’ says March. ‘I count thirty. Maybe forty. What do you reckon?’

  I try and do a rough count of the silhouettes. ‘Thirty or so.’

  ‘Why would they…’ says March, but he trails off.

  Following the fleet is a behemoth. It fills the sky, looming over us as if it might eclipse the heavens, and it is surrounded by a black miasma of smoke, staining the clouds. The ground beneath my feet vibrates, and I realise that the ship up there is absurdly huge – maybe ten times bigger than the Metronome. It lumbers onwards, like a floating metal storm cloud, and it sounds a deafening horn, like a foghorn amplified tenfold. I have to clamp my hands over my ears to protect them, and when I feel safe enough to uncover them, dogs are barking and car alarms are going off in the near distance.